


Dropping a Stitch

by SunflowerSkys



Series: The Stitches that Bind us Together [3]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Based on traditional Japenese embroidery customs, Earthbending & Earthbenders, Embroidery, Jet (Avatar) Is An Asshole, More characters to be added, Song (Avatar) wants to help, The Blue Spirit - Freeform, The Dai Li (Avatar), There Is No War In Ba Sing Se, Zuko and Azula don't have a great realationship, Zuko in the Earth Kingdom, Zuko is an Awkward Turtleduck, Zuko is silently judging everyone's clothing choices, zuko hates customer service
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:43:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25979173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerSkys/pseuds/SunflowerSkys
Summary: The air around him is full of dust.He’s not sure whether it’s an improvement from the cold of the previous months.Featuring Zuko's super fun adventures in the Earth Kingdom where absoloutly no one wants to kill him, and of course some more sprinklings of the nation's embroidery.
Relationships: Azula & Zuko (Avatar), Iroh & Zuko (Avatar), Jet & Smellerbee (Avatar), Jet & Zuko (Avatar), Lee & Zuko (Avatar), Song & Zuko (Avatar), Ursa & Zuko (Avatar), Zuko & The Fire Nation (Avatar), Zuko (Avatar) & Original Character(s)
Series: The Stitches that Bind us Together [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1842907
Comments: 127
Kudos: 347
Collections: A:tla





	1. Dusty Clothes

**Author's Note:**

> As always, constructive critisism is appreciated. Thanks for reading!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two posts in one day? Crazy. If you haven't read the first two parts, I would recommend giving them a shot!

The air around him is full of dust.

He’s not sure whether it’s an improvement from the cold of the previous months. 

The house they’ve stopped in is old, practically untouched by the war. The floorboards creak as he walks across them, out into the clear night where he can actually breath. He wants to yell, to curse the spirits for his luck. To curse anyone really. He’s even angry at Iroh. _I mean, he’s a general._ He thinks furiously. _He really should know better than to shove strange plants in his mouth._

Azula did always say that Uncle’s obsession with tea would be the death of him, but he’d always assumed that she was talking about poison slipped into his cup, not plain stupidity. 

But really, he can’t help feeling a small spark of pity, no matter how much of Uncle’s own fault it had been. Uncle really does look awful; in fact, he looks even worse covered as he is in the greenish gloop that’s supposed to relieve the swelling. He does feel a little sick looking at him though, although that might just be due to the first proper meal they’ve had in days in his stomach. 

For a minute, back at the north pole, he’d actually thought the spirits were on his side. He’d got in through the so-called-impenetrable ice walls and made it into a city that had been currently under siege. 

_I mean, Agni must have wanted me to get in_ , he thinks, otherwise he would have drowned under the ice, his body left floating among the turtle-seals in the ocean’s cold embrace. He’d defeated the Avatar’s waterbender, _captured the Avatar_ , and made it out of the oasis. For anyone else it would have been smooth sailing from there, so of course, that’s when his luck had run out. 

Azula would have known what to do. She would have a battleship waiting to pick her and her prisoner up, chains he couldn’t escape from, drugs to keep him asleep. What had he had? A coil of rope and a plan that only half worked. He would have made it out though. He wouldn’t let a snowstorm of all things kill him. He’s survived worse. Kept going when others would have given up. Azula’s always had luck on her side, but he’s never needed that, never wanted it. If the spirits really want him dead, they’re going to have to try a lot harder than that. 

The night is still. Strange birds call softly amongst the trees. After all this time at sea he’s more used to the harsh screeches of seabirds than the more melodic songbirds. Its still jarring to him, looking at the surroundings without the ocean anywhere in sight. He never thought he’d _miss_ it, after so long spent trying to get away from it, but he supposes he just misses the familiarity of it. 

Everything is different here. And now home is further away than ever. He’d never truly felt lost before, even when there was no sign of the Avatar though they searched for months on end. He’d always let his anger fuel him, let it push him onwards. Anger and conviction. He’d always known he’d find the Avatar, even when everyone said it was impossible, and Uncle gave him pitying glances every other day as if he was doing him a favour by humoring his belief. Call it intuition, or just simple determination, but he’d known that the Avatar was out there. He really had. And he’d been right, hadn’t he? The Avatar had been alive and is now up to merrily destroying whole fleets of ships. Fat lot of good it does him now. 

The porch creaks again as another set of feet walk across it. The girl that’s given them supper, Song, sits down beside him. He almost unconsciously assesses her, looking for threats like he’s been taught. There isn’t much to look for. Her hair hangs down her back in a long and practical braid, and she wears a plain hanbok dyed a pale creamy brown like so many of these kingdoms’ clothes are. It complements the white of her healers’ robes and is simple and unassuming. His eyes pick out the pattern embroidered in dull gold round the hem of her collar, wondering how long it took to sew. Probably not that long. Not like the months that he remembers tailors spending on his family’s robes. She probably saved up to buy it, even that small streak of gold is looks like a more expensive colour to dye than the ones she can usually afford. She has a look in her eyes that tells him how she walks a thin line between poverty and just doing well enough to get by, a look that he is familiar with by now. 

She smiles at him as if she expects a smile back, a gentle half quirk of her mouth which he ignores. Then her eyes, though her face is still gentle, turn more serious. 

“You know, I think in a way I have been luckier than some.” 

He wonders where she’s going with this. 

“My father may have been taken from me, but I still have my mother, still have this house. Still have a way to survive.” 

“Scars don’t always have to be visible.” He says, without knowing why. Just playing along, that’s it. Blending in. 

“No, I suppose your right. I know they’ve hurt you, not just physically.” He isn’t facing her, but he knows she glances at his scar. She reaches out a tentive hand, and he stops it firmly, uncaring about whether or not he leaves bruises. 

“It’s ok,” She says, as he releases her hand, though he wasn’t going to apologize. “They’ve hurt me too.” 

She pulls up the end of her hanbok, and he sees it. Scars like ribbons lace her leg. It’s the mark of a fire blast that just barely missed; but was still close enough to burn. He can’t stop his eyes from widening. It’s one thing to see the scars that wind round hardened earth soldiers and occasionally those of fire (Souvenirs from burning Agni Kai’s or the like). They’ve struggled, they’ve fought. They wear their scars like trophies, marks to tell the world that they were strong, they overcame their enemies. They survived. 

This girl is an innocent. She holds no pride in her burns, keeping them hidden, keeping them close. For her, they’re an eyesore, a blemish. She’s just barely older than him, but he can’t stop himself from thinking of her as young. _Too young_ … 

They’re all too young really, children fighting an adult’s war. Even the Avatar looks like a child, eyes wide in the same way that his own used to be. He’s not a child though anymore. He hasn’t been since his father burnt it out of him. He pities her, before he can stop himself. She’s the enemy, no matter how young she is. But the weakest part of his heart still cries out in sympathy for the faded burns that trace her leg. 

Later, they steal her horse. He says ‘they’, but it was really just him. He tells himself that it’s his right, his nations right. Just like it was his right to take the food they gave them, and the medicine they bestowed. But when he glances back and sees the small retreating figure of her silhouette against the light of the house, he can’t help but wish that he could turn back.


	2. Stolen Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter up! Feel free to add any point you think would improve my writing in the comments xx

The town they’ve stopped in is busy. People rush up and down the streets like they’re being chased by tiger-wolves, most of them to busy to stop for his and Uncle’s pathetic begging. The ostrich-horse lies behind them on a small mat, covered in a shabby green blanket with a darker forest-green trim, taken from an unsuspecting washing line. The ostrich-horse doesn’t have a name. Maybe it did once; when it belonged to the people he stole it from. Maybe they cared about it, maybe they didn’t. He doesn’t know. Uncle had suggested that they rename it ( _because of course he had_ ,) but Zuko had refused. He’s never had a good history with pets, and he wants to keep this animal as distant as possible from him. He can’t afford to get attached.

He thinks back to the palace gardens, how Azula liked to hurl chunks of stale bread at the turtleducks; like it amused her to see them sink. How later, after Mum disappeared it would be rocks tossed into the pond instead. She didn’t use to be like that, he knows that much. She just used to be curious, wanting to see what would happen, but with no real malice. Not fully understanding. But that time had passed, and they’d grown up. It’s a weakness to care for something as pathetic as a pet, as the palace tutors and father had drilled into him. And it made Azula laugh when the panther-cats screeched as she burnt their tails. 

He remembers seeing the faint shadows of servants lurking wide eyed and anxious. He’d always wished that they would intervene, but they never did. Too scared that Azula would move on from burning cats, and onto people he supposes. But afterwards as the sun set and they sat round the table too big for the three of them, him picking at a meal he’s almost too afraid to eat, she would look at Father with a sort of eagerness in her eyes, as if she was hoping that he’d heard what shed done. As if she were hoping that he’d be proud of her. 

He wears dark brown clothes, as close to red as earthy brown gets. No matter how hard he's trying to blend in, he just can’t bring himself to wear green yet. The colour of the enemy. Uncle doesn’t seem to share his concerns, wearing an olive green tunic that’s nearly the same shade as the horse’s blanket, though a little more intact. _Really_ , he thinks bitterly, _they make very realistic peasants_. However, despite his reluctance to wear green, he does make sure to wear his hat low, hiding his scar his scar a little, blending in with the crowds. He hates wearing the hat, hates hiding who he is. He’s never tried to hide his scar before, never tried to hide the fact of his banishment. But now, hiding may be the only thing keeping him alive. 

Uncle compliments any strangers that pass them, and he can’t help groaning. Is this really how they’re going to live out the rest of their lives? It’s humiliating; they’re _royalty_. These people should be giving them whatever they want. The masses shuffle on past, a cacophony of colours and sound. The rich are easily distinguishable from the poor, dressed in fine garments in a variety of colours; pale green and light gold most commonly, sometimes patterned with delicately sewn flowers or animals he doesn’t recognise. Some wear necklaces or head pieces, others go without. The underprivileged however, have tunics as brown as the dirt they walk on. They take less pride in their appearance; haggard, tired, faces stick out from every angle. Obviously looking nice is a luxury most of them cannot afford. 

The sun shining down onto his face is suddenly blocked by shadows. He looks up to see a man in front of them, arms folded across his chest, a smug look plastered on his face. A sheathed pair of Dao swords is hung across his back in easy reach. It would take a matter of seconds for him to reach out, to _take them_ , but no. He can’t cause a scene. Not here. 

The man sees the meagre collection coins in Uncle’s hat, and pulls out a small pouch that rattles with the promise of money from a bag at his side. 

“How about some entertainment,” he grins. “In exchange for one gold coin.” 

He pulls the coin out and holds it up, as if he’s offering them something precious. The light glints off it, like it’s a dull ember in his hands. Is this supposed to impress him? He grew up surrounded by more wealth than this man could _imagine_. 

( _Wealth that_ , he reminds himself reluctantly, _is as far out of his reach as the Avatar now_ ) 

“We’re not _performers_.” He says in reply, keeping his voice as level as possible. 

Uncle, however, appears unperturbed. He shoots Zuko a quieting look, before breaking out into his own particular brand of raucous singing. 

(This, however, has the unfortunate side-effect of giving Zuko vivid flash backs to music night, something he would rather forget) 

“Come on,” the swordsman sneers. “We’re talking a gold piece here, let’s see some action!” 

He unsheathes the swords from his back, and _swings_ his blades at Iroh's feet. The tips of the blades scratch at the ground as Iroh hops desperately from foot to foot. Zuko can barely control his anger, but he holds himself back even as his hands clench and his fingernails bite into his palms. He can feel the fire tingling in his fingertips, but he holds it back, pushes it down in his chest where it growls like a caged lion-panther, begging to be let out. The insult is intensified by fact that these are _his_ weapons, his own weapons being used against him. His own weapons furthering his descent into dishonour. 

The swordsman’s arms must be tired, because he finally stops with a laugh that grates in Zuko’s ears. He tosses the coin down towards them so that it rolls in a circle before landing on its side in the dirt. 

“Thanks for the laugh.” The man chuckles. “Nothing I enjoy more than a _fat old man_ dancing for his dinner!” 

And with that, he saunters off, back into the street. 

_Iroh could kill you quicker than you could cry out. He could kill you in more ways than you can imagine. If you knew who he really was, you’d be begging for his forgiveness_. 

Of course, he doesn’t say any of this, just watches the man go. But a plan is already forming in his mind. 

**....**

Later as the cold light of the moon shines, a shadow moves across the rooftops. The swordsman in the narrow alleyway, walking alone after an evening of betting and fighting in bars, whips his head around. 

“Who’s there?” 

He calls out into the night, voice trembling with false bravado. The night does not reply. It never does. The swordsman tries to ignore the way his breath rattles over his lips, and his heart pounds in his chest. He's heard the tales men tell of spirits; how naming them gives them power, how they’ll steal your heart still beating right from between your ribs. He draws his swords from their sheath, swinging them around his head in a display of strength. As if _that_ would scare anything away. 

He wields the weapons with obvious signs of teaching but yet his movements are still stilted, choppy. He doesn’t _flow_ with the blades, immerse himself in the shining steel. It’s one thing to learn with swords, and another thing to _move_ with them. The figure waits until the man is off balance, then _strikes_. He doesn’t even need swords for this. Two hands shoot out of the darkness, grabbing the man’s wrists, pulling him forward in one movement and throwing him down onto the unforgiving ground. The swords clatter on the floor, a sharp metallic noise. A blue mask peers out of the gloom, face distorted in a permanent grimace. His swords now. 

He picks them up, feels the weight in his hands. It feels right, like they were meant for him. Their handles may be green, but a streak of gold glimmers at the ends. Colours of Fire hidden in a place of Earth. 

And when the swordsman finally picks himself up, head spinning and ears ringing, there is no trace that a masked man had ever been there, but the weapons stolen from his very hands. 


	3. Desert Life (Part 1)

The sun beats down on his hunched shoulders, Agni’s light turned against him. His hunger moans from his stomach, demanding his attention. He’s been hungry before of course, like when they didn’t have enough money to buy adequate supplies for the ship, or later, as he and uncle floated across the sea away from the North, only the thin raft between them and death.

(And especially in the days, _weeks_ after his banishment where he had lain in bed, too tired to move, too sick to eat) 

But this type of hunger is different, a hollower, emptier feeling. His throat scratches with every breath he takes; it’s as if every drop of moisture has been sucked out of the air around him. He thinks of Uncle, wonders if he’s doing ok. He’s probably doing better than him right now, unless that is, he’s sampled some more random plants. It’s just the kind of thing he would do as well, even after what happened last time. Maybe they shouldn’t have split up… _No_. he reminds himself firmly. _There’s a reason we had to go our separate ways_. 

The thing is, Uncle seems to have a vastly different world view from him. He still remembers the beseeching look in Iroh’s eyes as he asked him to _give up on his life_. 

_“There is a simple honor in poverty_.” 

But there’s not. Not for him at least anyway. His whole life has been about honor, for almost as long as he can remember; the correct bows to perform to those higher ranking than him, the right way to wear your hair for different ceremonies, _fighting for your honor_. And he has been fighting. Been fighting for years. And he can’t just give that up. He’s not even sure he knows how to. 

The road winds on ahead of him, like a dry river of dirt. The ostrich-horse’s breathing is slightly laboured, a dull, heaving sound. He wishes he had some water to give her, but he barely has enough to wet his throat when he tips the bottle back to his mouth. He’s just glad of how hard it is for firebenders to get sunburnt; he’d hate to be a waterbender in these kinds of conditions. Then again, at least a waterbender could pull some faint moisture from the air, his talent of heating things up doesn’t really fix dehydration. 

_Water_ , he thinks languidly, _is an odd thing _. It's fluid, in a manner that fire somehow fails to be. Circling its self in ever changing spirals. And if he really considers the element, he finds it similar to _air_ in an odd sort of way. Both are forever changing, forever moving. Never still. But, if he really thinks about it, it almost makes sense. The moon, the source of all Waterbenders powers is held aloft in the sky amoung the roaring winds. The spirits always in each other's company. Similar but not the same. Fire however, is a dance with fewer steps. In that aspect it's very similar to Earth. They both know what they want: Fire to burn and earth to shake. Of course, they have more nuanced aspects (everything does) but at their core, they are similar. They move with more confidence, harsher and stronger. Just like the earth circles the sun. __

____

____

Then suddenly, his tired eyes pick up a burst of colour ahead, a patch of green among the dusty browns. His drifting thoughts are immedietly pulled back to his attention, and he straightens up in the saddle. There’s a smell too, the rich smokey scent of food on a fire. A couple, resting against a stunted tree, a small campfire in front of them. Food. And probably water too, rolled up in one of their knapsacks. Before he can stop himself, his hand is resting on his sword hilt. He almost can’t help it. But then, as the haze from the heat clears from his eyes, he takes a closer look. Looks properly at the people so blissfully unaware of his presence. 

They’re obviously Earth Kingdom, dressed as they are in shades of green and cream. However, this is something that does separate them from the poorest of people he’s encountered. They obviously have money or used too at any rate. They probably lived well, earned enough to make lives for themselves. There’s still traces of that, a top knot holder laced with gold, a faint tan line just visible from his spot upon the hill where a bracelet used to clasp around a wrist. Sold for provisions most likely. They must have lost something, something bad forced these people to make this perilous a journey on foot across the desert. They must have really lost hope. 

And then, as he further contemplates the sight in front of him, the man turns again towards the women and he sees something that furthers his resolve. She’s pregnant. If he robbed them now, he would really be as bad as the wanted posters say he is. It’s one thing to steal from the wealthy, the well off, _the arrogant_ , but these people look like they have even less in the world than him. And that’s really saying something. So, stomach still growling, he tugs at the reins of the ostrich-horse, and lets the couple go. 

The sun seems hotter than ever now. He fights back the urge to give up, to slip quietly into unconsciousness. Sleep is practically an invitation for the vulture-bees. The track blurs in front of him, colours blending into unrecognizable smears; yellow and brown and black and red. _Red_? 

_A face in the darkness_  
The red hood is drawn up  
don’t leave me- 

And he is jolted awake. 

He grits his teeth, biting his tongue. This is not the time for memories. There’s never a time for memories. 

Eventually, a small village appears out of the dusty sand. The buildings seem to be held up by a combination of dirt and hope, and everything is worn a tired greyish colour. Ragged clothes hang swaying from lines, catching what little breeze there is to get. The villagers are quiet mainly, disinterestedly watching him arrive. But as he makes his way further down the street, a group of gamblers look up from their game. An assortment of weapons hang from their sides. Soldiers probably. Their eyes a cold, like steel. A harsh contrast from the warmth of his surroundings. He keeps his eyes ahead, refusing to engage with their accusatory glares. He’s not here to start anything. 

He dismounts from his ostrich-horse, hitting the ground hard with his feet. The merchant at his small store looks up as he walks over, hungry eyes full of anticipation for a potential customer. 

“I’d like some water please.” 

He almost starts at the sound of his own voice; rougher and coarser than he’s ever heard it. 

“Some water, a hot meal, and a bag of feed.” 

He extends out his hand from his side revealing the small coins inside. Surely it’s enough? But the man shakes his head. 

“You don’t have enough here for a hot meal son, but I can give you two bags of feed if that suits you?” 

He can’t even bring himself to protest. Honestly, he’d eat anything he was given right now. There’s no point trying to cling to the last shreds of his quickly evaporating dignity. 

“Yes. I suppose that will have to do.” 

As the man heads into his ramshackle hut, presumably in search of the feed bags, his attention is captured by the quiet giggling coming from next to the counter. Two boys are crouched there, whispering to each other in anticipation of… of something. He turns away. It’s not his problem. A few seconds later, and the question is solved. A flash of creamy white in his (damaged) peripheral vision, and the startled yelp from one of the gamblers. He turns around briefly just in time to see the look on the man’s face; one part anger and two parts surprise. Then, the smell reaches him. Rotten eggs. There’s no other use for them, so why not use them on somebody you dislike? It’s good thinking really. He shifts back towards the counter, but it’s too late. The men have spotted him, and are already heading his way angrily. The kids have scurried out and away from the counter, and he’s now the only one left in direct sight. 

“Hey!” The man who seems to be the leader calls loudly.  
“You throwing eggs at us stranger?” 

The men are all dressed in shades of greens ( _everybody he meets is nowadays it seems_ ) and the leader has a small dark green shawl draped across his shoulders, marked with an earth kingdom insignia. It irritates him, that shawl. It’s like if somebody took the avatar’s own bright orange shawl, dumped it in a bowl of green dye and slapped an Earth Kingdom symbol on it. He reaches discreetly for his swords. He wouldn’t like to be on the wrong end of those spears, that is, if they even know how to use them. 

“No.” he replies to the leader’s accusation, trying not to show his utter distaste in his voice. 

“You see who did throw it? 

The man’s eyes are grey, like the fur of a rat-snake. It’s reminiscent of Ty Lee’s eyes actually, only hers were always more similar in colour to the sight of a storm on a summer’s day. But this man is an Earthbender, no doubt about it. (Not like there is about Ty Lee’s heritage). The ground shakes as he approaches, a self-confident smile plastered all over his face. The face of a man who believes himself to be above everything else. He’s no stranger to people who think like that. 

He could tell the man everything, point towards the worried eyes of the boys who watch nervously from the side, just about out of sight. 

“Maybe a chicken flew over?” He suggests dryly instead. He really can’t deal with men like this. Not today. 

The man scowls, face contorted in annoyance and disbelief. He obviously doesn’t believe Zuko’s very well thought through story. 

The vendor finally reappears from the shop, the feed clutched in his hands. He has a nervous look on his face as he takes in the crowd of men, and his hands quiver ever so slightly as he counts out Zuko’s coins. But just as Zuko reaches towards the feed, the leader of the men swoops in like a vulture-bee, taking it from the counter. 

“Thanks for your _kind_ contribution. The army appreciates your support.” 

He tosses the food bags to the other men, before looking back to where Zuko stands. 

“The price of staying here is a lot steeper than you can afford stranger.” 

His voice is calm, yet there is an ugliness hidden there. Something Zuko doesn’t want to cross if he can help it. Well, not yet anyway. Once he’s had a proper meal, _then_ he can beat this man into the dust. Anyway, he doesn’t even particularly want to stay here of all places. 

The man swaggers off, the rest of the soldiers following him with raucous laughter. The clothes hanging from the lines above them wave as they walk under, like flags signifying his surrender. 

The vendor watches them go; relief written all over his face. 

“Sorry about your food.” He says sympathetically. “But there’s not much I can do to help you. Gow and his men are supposed to protect us from the Fire Nation, but they’re really just a bunch of thugs. Sometimes I wonder if being invaded is really that bad compared to them.” 

Zuko doesn’t reply. There really isn’t much to say. Instead he turns back to the ostrich-horse. But as he approaches, a face suddenly pops up from behind the animal, and it takes all of his willpower not to accidently reduce the child that has just appeared in front of him to ashes. 

Said child grins. It’s one of the ones from the earlier egg incident, and he’s dressed in a shabby green top with his hair done up scruffily on his head. 

“Thanks for not ratting me out earlier!” 

The kid smiles up at him like the fact that he saved him from being beaten up makes them friends. He replies by jumping up onto the ostrich-horse, pulling the reins tightly, moving her forwards. 

In the corner of his eye, he sees the kid stare after him in disappointment. He looks back to the road. Nothing for him here. But then, he hears the patter of feet, and the boy grabs at his reins. 

“I’ll take you to my house and feed your ostrich-horse for you? In repayment?” 

The boy looks at him hopefully, like Zuko would be doing him a favour by taking his food. Food that he really does need. He’s not particularly looking forward to having to rob some more travellers to survive, and if this kid is happy to give away food, then who’s he to argue? So, he lets himself be led away, and feels the smallest twinge of relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Kudos _feed my soul ___  
> Seriously though, I appreciate everyone that gives a little love!
> 
> Thanks for reading so far!


	4. Desert Life (Part 2)

He has never seen so many pig-crossed farm animals before in his life. Everywhere he looks in the roughly fenced enclosure; chicken-pigs scratch wearily in the dirt, and a few moosows stare up at them with vacant eyes as they pass by. His stomach is still complaining loudly, a continuous ache that makes it hard to think of anything else. He tries not to shift around too noticeably.

He can tell that the house is small, even from his first fleeting glance. And as they approach the gate, it only gets worse. Even more decrepit than he thought it was possible for a house still standing to get. The roof is littered with half patched holes, and the windows are devoid of any sort of glass. 

Their presence on the narrow dirt path seems to have finally properly alerted the farm animals, because they begin a storm of frenzied oinking. The sound is already starting to give him a headache, though that might just be the dehydration. 

Finally, he can’t stand the onslaught of noise any longer. 

“Why don’t you, I don’t know, move the pen a little further away from the house or something?” _Surely nobody enjoys living surrounded by this cacophony_. 

He aims the question through gritted teeth to the kid whose name has either neglected to have been mentioned or just simply forgotten by him already. He's got to be careful of his phrasing though, he really doesn’t want to get kicked out before even getting a sip of water. All in all, it’s pretty pathetic really. 

The kid grins back up at him, seemingly unaware of Zuko’s pounding headache as he launches into an exclamative explanation. 

“Well you see, this way nobody can ever sneak up on us! I mean, not without us hearing them first anyway. We practically have our own Guard-Geese! I mean, Mum always says…” 

However, at this point, Zuko has lost interest. Who would even want to sneak up on these obviously poor peasants? He can’t imagine any bandits or robbers would be particularly enticed. Robbing this shack of a house would probably even result in them leaving with less money than they arrived with. 

( _And if he’s really being honest, he’s always been slightly wary around Guard-Geese, probably due to the fact that Azula had often enjoyed siccing the palace geese on him as her version of a practical joke_ ) 

It seems that the kid is right about the helpfulness of the noise, because as they approach the house a man appears from under the half fixed roof. His arms are bound tightly with green cloth wrappings, stained brown from dust and work, and his raggedy kimono-like tunic is bound with a sash of the same colour. His hair seeks desperately to escape its headpiece in a spray of brown spikes. His eyes are wary, but in every other respect he’s almost a replica of they boy holding onto the reins of Zuko’s mount. As he dismounts, the boy grabs the horse’s reins more firmly, and tugs her away towards what he assumes is some sort of barn. The man left in front of Zuko sizes him up. Zuko discreetly pulls his hat further over his face. 

“You a friend of Lee’s then?” 

A women, presumably his wife peers out at him cautiously from behind the house. There’s fear in both these people’s eyes, but also relief. As if they’d expected the ostrich-horse to be carrying someone else. 

Then as the kid returns hurriedly from the barn, the impact of what the man has just said hits him. 

_Crap. There goes his fake name_. 

The boy, Lee, is talking excitedly to his father, waving his arms erratically as he speaks. 

“Those soldiers never saw him coming! This guy practically had them running away. It was amazing!” 

The man breaks into a half smile. He looks at Zuko with more appreciation then anybody has for a while. He pulls Lee closer towards him, and the woman from behind the house finally ventures out. 

“Does this guy have a name?” 

Her voice isn’t interrogative, simply questioning, but he stutters anyway. 

“I’m..uhh..” 

“Come on Sela,” Lee’s father interjects wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “The man doesn’t have to say who he is if he doesn’t want to.” 

“But since we have no worries about telling you who we are, you might as well know that I’m Gansu, and these are my son, Lee, and Sela, my wife. But you’ve probably already gathered that.” He chuckles to himself. 

_It’s weird; he’s only just met theses people, but he’s already seen give more affection to each other than his own family could generate in a year_. 

“Anybody who stands up to those bullies is a friend of our family. And that’s not even mentioning how you got Lee out of what could have been a nasty mess. Those men should be ashamed to wear Earth kingdom uniforms.” 

Sela sighs, fiddling with the edge of her sleeve, face heavy with sadness. 

“The real soldiers are all of fighting in the war. Like Lee’s older brother, Sensu. _They_ would have protected us. But I guess we just have to fend for ourselves now.” 

She glances toward Lee as she speaks, and Zuko can’t help but sympathise with her. He knows what its like to have the people you care about leave. 

Sela wipes the sombre look from her face with what seems to be an effort. “Supper’s nearly ready. Would you care to join us? It’s the least we can do.” 

His stomach is loud, but his pride is louder. “No, I wouldn’t want to take food away from your family. And anyway, I should be moving on.” 

The family glance at each other, obvious disbelief in their eyes.  
Sela quickly breaks the silence.  


“Well, we could use a little help around the house. Why don’t we work for a little while, and then we can eat?  
He knows that this is just a tactic to get him to accept help, he’s no stranger to being manipulated. But he nods anyway.  


Sela smiles in relief. “Great! I could really use some help fixing the feed bags for the animals. I don’t know if you’ve ever patched things up before but it’s not too hard to learn how, and I can give you a quick lesson if you need?” 

He tries not to smile at the irony. He really doesn’t need any lessons from them. 

“No, that’ll be fine. I’ve used needles before.” 

Sela scrutinizes him. “Well, if you’re sure. Follow me.” And with that she turns around and through the doorway of the house. 

**.....**

The material she places in front of him is more stitches then it is fabric. It probably used to have a colour, or maybe even a pattern at some point, but it has long since faded to a dull sort of beige. The bag is ripped along the seams in an uneven line. This looks like it’s happened before, the material shows signs of repetitious fixing, stitches upon stitches. Layers of thread. Of course, it never lasts. He can tell that much from a glance. The fixing is always assumed to be temporary, until the bags inevitability break again. Along the fabric, smaller holes have been torn, fixed, and torn again. Messy thread pulls the two sides together, though they obviously long to be apart. 

Sela obviously picks up on the look in his eyes. 

“I have to admit, I’ve never been very good at fixing things. Nobody was ever around to teach me. My mum was the only person I knew who understood this sort of stuff, but she’s been gone for a long time. It’s just us now. Me, Gansu and Lee. And neither of them know even the basics”. 

She smiles wearily. 

“But, it’s fine, really. I just have to get used to mending these things when they break.” 

_The problem is, she shouldn’t have to fix the material. Not this often. When you fix something, you’ve got to make it last. Got to draw it out until the very thread decays. Otherwise, you’re stuck in the cycle of fixing and refixing on a regular and unending basis_. 

He carefully threads the thick needle. He may be a little rusty, but he’s sure he can sew these better than this women has been trying too. Even with this thin and worn fabric. 

**.....**

He thinks that he’s maybe got back into the rhythm of it by the time Lee and Gansu return from fixing the roof. The only reason he even realizes that they’ve finished is because the loud thumping that has beat in time with his stitches has finally ceased. Lee watches him with interest. He doesn’t look up from the table, but he can feel the graze prickling on the backs of his hands. 

“Where did you learn to do that?” 

“Not here.” 

“Oh. Who taught you then?” 

Gansu places an arm on Lee’s shoulder calmingly. 

“Lee, you should know by now that it’s not polite to ask so many personal questions. The man’s a past is own business.” 

_Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer too._

He resumes the methodical stitching, in and out and in and out. Like breathing. He depends upon it. 

Lee is silent for a while, his eyes following the path of the greyish needle. 

“So, where’d you get that scar then?” 

The needle deviates from its path and into his finger. Blood drops onto the stained fabric, and he can’t help but releases a grunt of pain. 

“Lee! It’s not nice to bother people about things they might not want to talk about.” 

The fabric parts for the needle, metal slides through material with a hiss like the sound of the waves. Soft sliding, repetitive. Repeat. Don’t make the same mistakes. 

_Red robes draped in gold. Tiny stitches, so small they’re almost invisibly pulling the seams of the top together. Warmth, the sun is shining. “In and out.” Her voice is like the pond in their gardens; so very calm. So very gentle. “You’ve just got to be patient; it’ll work out if you keep going._ ” 

_He holds the needle in his hand. “Hey mum, want to see how_ Azula _would sew?_ ” 

_The fabric rips where he plunges the needle in, small marks, but not so easily fixed._

_“Zuko!” her voice is disapproving. “Why would you do that?”  
He doesn’t know why, only that he did. You can’t fix the past. “I’m sorry.”  
Her gaze softens._  


_“Well, we may not be able to fix it, but we can always find a way to work it in.”  
Hands pull the stitches, over and under, over and under. “See?”  
And he does._  


_Later, they pour over Uncle’s letter together, the parchment stained with smoke and ashes. “_ Until then _,” Ursa reads; “_ enjoy these gifts.”  


_He smiles at the shine of the dagger, marvels at the calligraphy so elegantly engraved. Never give up without a fight. Azula is less pleased. She glares at the dagger with jealousy, the green dressed doll clutched in her fist. He really thinks that she should be able to see what Iroh is doing, because that doll is obviously a compliment. He’s the one who needs more fire, while Azula needs calming down. But she doesn’t seem to see it that way, and the green dress flickers with streaks of flame._

The creaking of the door wakes him up immediately. He’s no stranger to people sneaking into his space. 

Moonlight glimmers across the ground and illuminates the small figure hacking mercilessly at an innocent tree stump among the faded flowers. He recognizes the petals, the shape. 

_Sunflowers_ , his mind supplies uselessly. _The symbols of longevity and loyalty. The embodiment of summer_. 

The figure swings the blades, circles flashing in the air, and for a fleeting second, he looks as if he knows what he's doing. Then he loses balance, and tumbles over backwards. 

_Well that didn't last long did it_. 

He speaks before he knows what he’s doing. 

“You’re holding them wrong.” 

Lee gives out a surprised shriek as he spins around. Its almost funny how startled he looks. He wilts with a guilty look on his face as he bows his head towards Zuko apologetically. 

“Could you..maybe…tell me how you do it then?” 

“Well,” he says taking the swords, “It’s like this, see?” 

And he does. 

**.....**

The first rays of sun have just cleared the horizon as they make their way back to the house. Lee is still a bubbling ball of energy, and for the first time he thinks he understands the saying: ‘Like a lemur on cactus-juice.’ Lee is still talking though. So, he makes an effort to listen. 

“It just rocks, you know? Now next time those so called ‘soldiers’ come to visit I’ll really make sure they don’t forget me in a hurry! I’ll give them a-” 

_(At this point in his ongoing narrative, he slashes the swords wildly in front of his, and Zuko is forced to surreptitiously move out of the way)_

“Yeah! That’ll teach ‘em! I wish I could be more like you though!” Zuko’s brain has to take a moment to process this sentiment here. 

“Roaming the plains on my ostrich-horse, saving villages and being heroic! I bet your horse has a really cool name as well, like.... DeathBeak!” 

He crosses his arms in an expression of self-satisfaction at the look on Zuko’s face. 

"Is it DeathBeak? Did I guess it right?” 

“She doesn't... actually have a name" He admits. 

“Oh,” Lee nods knowingly. “I get it. It’s cooler that way.” 

“Not really. I’ve just never named her.” 

“What? Why! You can’t be a cool Earth Kingdom hero without a cool Earth Kingdom name for your horse.” 

Once again, there is a brief intermission as the wheels in Lee’s brain turn, and then suddenly- 

“Well, if _you’re_ not going to name her, can _I_ do it? 

Zuko shrugs. It doesn’t really make a difference to him either way. 

“Right!” Lee rubs his hands together with an expression that reminds him a little of one of Azula’s, but without the hidden malice. “Well, if you really want a good Earth Kingdom name, you should name her something like Bataar, or Li Wei, or, or, Lee! Like me! You should name her Lee!” 

“But…you’re called Lee. And it’s a boy’s name?” 

“Junior Lee then!” 

He isn’t able to stop the small smile that creeps onto his face. He can’t help it; the boy just reminds him of himself in an odd way. If only Azula could see him now, with his ‘ _nice Earth Kingdom peasant family.’_ She’d probably think it was hilarious. And it is sort of funny, really. But he still can’t enjoy it properly, can never enjoy it properly. He lost that chance a long time ago. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not writing for a bit! School has been _busy_  
>  Hope every one who reads this is doing well!


	5. The Oasis

Forwards. Backwards. Forward again. If you’d asked Zuko a few months ago where he spent most of his time, he would have reluctantly admitted to the fact that his entire existence seemed to revolve around one, old, rickety ship. But now, even that seems more like a distant memory compared to the constant back and forth jolting of the ostrich-horse.

( _Junior Lee_ whispers his mind. He blocks it out) 

At least they seem to have reached a slightly more hospitable area of the earth kingdom. This narrow valley actually has a few spindly trees clinging desperately to the dry soil, and he even sees a few birds pecking despondently in the dust. From beside him in the saddle Uncle once again resumes his groans of pain, dramatically flinging back his head as if this will make the obviously exaugurated moans more realistic. Iroh always has to be dramatic doesn’t he? But Zuko really doesn’t have it in him to yell at him though, not after all that happened. Not after Azula- 

He cuts that train of thought in its tracks. _Uncle would probably say something along the lines of thinking about his problems won’t help him solve them_. (Does that even make sense? Proverbs really aren’t his thing) 

Forwards and backwards. Just like waves. The land turned into sea.  
He can almost imagine uncles groaning is the wind.  


Finally, he gives up. They really should continue moving ( _moving where?_ ) but he doesn’t think he can stand another minute accompanied by this moaning. 

“Maybe we should make camp.” 

“No, we should keep moving, I wouldn’t want to hold us up.” 

He feels bad, and then annoyed. Uncle has been through much worse in his extensive military career, if he says they don’t need to stop, they don’t need to stop. And yet…. 

He pulls at the reins sharply. The ostrich-horse (he’s still not going to call her anything else) balks with an indignant squark and he winces internally. 

“We stop here. Your bandages really need to be changed if you want the wound to heal quickly. And anyway, who knows how long this moment of relaxation will last? Unless you’ve forgotten the fact that the _entire world_ hates us.” 

( _The ordinary people, the villagers, Lee, his family-_ ) 

“No, no.” Uncle mutters, though Zuko suspects its half to himself. “You’re right, we really should stop.”  
He jumps down from the saddle, causing plumes of disturbed dust to rise from the ground. Nearer the trees, the soil looks firmer, so he quickly heads in that direction. 

Under the trees, there is a little more shade. The Ostrich horse sits down a little further away with a resounding thump. She takes a moment of her time to cluck in his general direction, without looking up from her scratching in the earth. He gets the impression that she’s still irritated about their trek through the desert, and he doesn’t blame her. He’d be annoyed to if some lunatic decided to drag him through miles of scorching sand. But, he pulls his attention close. Time to focus. 

_It’s lucky_ , he thinks, _how much experience he has treating burns_. His mind runs through each of the steps almost automatically as he removes the wrappings around Uncles shoulders. _Don't break blisters. Fluid-filled blisters protect against infection. If a blister breaks, clean the area with water. Apply an ointment_. 

The burn is like a flower, with wide spreading petals. But Uncle’s definitely been lucky; it could have been a lot worse. 

He hunts through their scarce supplies in search of an ointment, a lotion, anything really. He finally discovers their only small pot of cream. He hopes that they reach another village soon, because he’s not sure of what they’ll do when it runs out. Uncle may try to act as if he’s fine, but he really doesn’t want to risk them having to create their own remedies because the wound had suddenly become infected or something. 

( _Knowing Uncle, any home remedies would probably result in more harm than good anyway_ ) 

Despite their lack of supplies, the bag is still surprisingly heavy, mostly due to the full tea set the Uncle seems to have packed. He can’t stop the small pang of irrational jealously he gets. Iroh still gets to take what he enjoys on their travels, while he’s barely touched a needle over the last few months. 

He shakes his head, and for the third time in the day brings his mind back from it’s wanderings. _Focus, focus, focus_. 

_When the burn is completely cooled, apply an aloe lotion_. It may not be the same kind of cutting edge palace treatments he’s used to getting, but the ointment should do well enough. 

_Bandage the burn. At least they still have a pretty heavy supply of bandages. Cover the burn with a sterile bandage. Wrap it loosely to avoid putting pressure on burned skin. Bandaging keeps air off the area, reduces pain and protects blistered skin_. 

He tucks the edges of the bandage strips in to keep them from falling out of place. No need to waste supplies.  
“I’m finished.”  


Uncle sighs in relief.  
“Well done.”  


“It wasn’t that hard.” 

But Uncle doesn’t seem to be paying attention anymore, too focused on the horizon. Zuko takes this as a warning, and listens too. 

“Ahh,” Says Uncle grimly. “Looks like we’re about to be joined by some old friends of mine.” 

**.....**

Later, after their unfortunate encounter with Iroh’s “friends” Zuko is back to feeling annoyed. 

“I _told_ you the whole world hates us. Don’t you have any old friends who don’t want to attack you?” 

Regrettably, his choice of words prompts a mysterious look to appear on Iroh’s face. “Hmm… old friends who don’t want to attack me….” 

Zuko almost wishes he hadn’t brought it up. Anything would be better than Uncle’s irritating secrecy, but he holds in a sigh, and lets Uncle take the reins. 

**.....**

It’s annoying. He had thought that they were leaving the desert, but now they seem to be back in the midst of it. When they do stop again in an admittedly shady looking street, the Ostrich-Horse looks like it’s either about to collapse or to kick them in the teeth. 

“Sorry.” He mutters as he ties her up against the wall. She glares at him with an alarming amount of anger before tucking her beak under a stubby wing. 

He leaves her there with a cautionary glare towards the stragglers in the alleyways. Just let them try and steal her, she’d make them regret it soon enough. 

He feels the watch of eyes on his back. He wouldn’t be surprised if half these people, wandering down the streets or in and out of the oasis, were bounty-hunters, murderers, people on the run from any of the nations. He wouldn’t even be too surprised to find a few firebenders among this pack. Loyalty may be a driving force, but everybody has a breaking point. 

They pass through a wider street. People have set up stalls here, tarpaulins of faded green and white coat the edges of the road in worn fabric. Rusty weapons, vats of a greenish liquid that sloshes alarmingly, clothes from every nation. This really is a town for the desperate. A town where people go to disappear. 

Most of the stalls are marketed by faceless sandbenders, their features obscured by thin sunblockers and wraps of sun whitened cloth. They look up as they pass because everyone always seems too. _Are they really that bad at blending in_? 

Then, in the light of the sun, something glints against a backdrop of sand. There’s a stall, smaller than the rest. But he’s more interested in what its selling then its size. Sewing materials. Dirty rolls of cloth. Slightly rusty needles. This shop isn’t for enjoyment, more likely for simple patches, simple fixes. But in Zuko’s eyes, it’s a treasure trove. But Uncle is already moving on, so he makes himself a silent promise to return before turning round to catch up. 

**.....**

Inside to bar, the atmosphere is tense. Nobody looks relaxed as they talk, heads are constantly turning around to check out their surroundings. Two men are huddled by a table, on tall and muscly, the other shorter and thin. He watches them carefully out of the corner of his eye. The conversation is loud, but muted at the same time. Everybody is quietly talking to another, and these overlapping conversations create a greater amount of noise. Uncle surveys the room. 

“I think I’ve found our guy.” 

In the corner by a small window that lets through an untainted chink of light, a man is sitting. He has a board game laid out in front of him, and Zuko (regrettably) recognises it as Pai Sho. If Uncle’s brought them all this way to play Pai Sho… 

The man raises his head towards them as Uncle sits down in front him. 

“May have this game?” The man nods, and almost at the same second, they begin laying tiles out on the board. Zuko sits down to watch them, not quite able to conceal his intrigue. 

The man surveys the board. Next, he and Iroh exchange a few words, all seemingly random. He should have known that Uncle’s ‘friend’ would enjoy speaking in riddles. 

“What are you old gasbags talking about?” 

“Didn’t I always tell you that Pai Sho was more than just a game?” 

But before Zuko can do anything drastic in infuriated retaliation, he hears the unmistakable sound of trouble. It’s the two men he spotted earlier, and they look like they’re ready for a fight. 

“You two are coming with us!” 

He feels like banging his head against the wall. He should have paid more attention. He knew that something like this was bound to happen, and now they’re going to be forced to blow their cover, and then Azula will know where they are, and then she’ll tell father and then- 

The man from the game table stands up.  
Small flowers glimmer for a moment on the man’s collar, then he turns, and the fold of the shirt cover them again. They look vaguely familiar; something about the shape makes him faintly irritated in a way he cannot place. Something about missing tiles…  
The Pai Sho man points towards Iroh. 

"I knew it. You two are wanted criminals with giant bounties on your heads!" He glares angrily at the larger man.  
"You think _you're_ going to capture them and collect all that gold?!"  


“I thought you said that this was a friend of yours!”  
Zuko can’t resist the slightly bitter jab, even though their cover, and potentially their lives are on the line. 

Uncle smiles. “He is helping us, just look.” He looks.  


The word gold seems to have caught the attention of the other patrons. Heads are quickly rising, and the two men, especially the thinner one, are starting to look nervous. 

“Gold?” The word is echoed round the tavern. “What gold?” 

The dim light is suddenly full of the suggestions of hidden knives, and half the bar shift into bending positions. 

“Back off!” Growls the larger man. “”This is our bounty!” 

Unfortunately, nobody seems to have told this Earthbender that men like these don’t easily accept the word “no”. 

**.....**

The stone floor is hard. He leans against the door, and tries not to get to annoyed with uncle. Nothing to now but wait. Wait for whatever uncle is doing to finish. But who knows how long that’ll take? He can already feel that the sun has moved slightly across the sky. Then, all of a sudden, inspiration hits him. Before he knows it, he’s getting up, and leaving the flower shop as quietly as he can. 

The Oasis is quieter now. The rush of the morning has passed, and now the heat of the afternoon is setting in. Most of the stalls are gradually closing, pulling sheets across their displays and packing away objects. Nobody wants to be out in the sun. 

He quickens his pace, hoping silently that it will still be there, still be open. And just as he turns the corner, he sees it. The merchant is furtively counting out a few copper coins, he looks just about finished for the day, but Zuko heads over anyway. 

“How much for a needle and thread?” 

The man starts in surprise. 

“Don’t sneak up on a guy like that! You almost gave me a heart attack!” 

_Well maybe, he thinks, you should be more on edge. You have to be quick to survive_. 

“How much?” he reiterates. 

The man grunts in annoyance. 

“Well you’re a demanding one aren’t you? Who do ya think you are, _royalty_ or something? Give me a minute will you.” 

_He really shouldn’t be here; he doesn’t have time for this. But.._

The vendor sighs, seeing that Zuko still hasn’t left. 

“You’ll probably be my last customer for the day, so you know what, I’ll give them for you cheap. Then you can tell your friends what a nice guy I am. 10 copper pieces.” 

It’s really a waste of money; he doesn’t _need_ this. But he wants it. Any doesn’t he deserve something, anything? So he pays for the overly expensive needle and pack of threads, tucks them into his top. And resolves to never tell anyone about this, ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a particularly high quality chapter, but at least I got one out! Everyone who reads this, look after yourselves and keep doing well!


	6. Gently down the Stream

The boat (if anyone could really call this hunk of rotting wood a boat) moves through the black water like a rusty knife through butter. He’s actually surprised that the wheezing engines haven’t given up yet, haven’t surrendered themselves to their inevitable fate; but somehow, the boat keeps moving. It’s crowded, probably more crowded than it was ever intended to be. People are practically hanging off of the railings, so desperate to get away that even their few possessions lie discarded in trade for safe passage. Desperation, the one thing him and all these people have in common. Who but the truly desperate would thrust their lives into the hands of the person who steers the ferry? At least they've actually been able to have one proper meal on their jorney; if they'd been given one more bowl of hard congee he might have just thrown himself overboard.

He’s not sure which is louder; the hum of the engines or Uncle’s vibrating snores. There’s a lot of things he’s unsure of nowadays, one of them being how Uncle can bring himself to sleep. He knows for certain that sleep for him is out of the question. Not while nobody’s watching his back. There are too many variables, too many foreign factors. Any one of these drifting “refugees” could be a Nation soldier, a spy, an assassin. Azula would love that. He’d spent so much time and effort trying to evade her, some lowlife crook dragging him back would just be embarrassing really. His wandering thoughts are interrupted by another ship-rocking snore. Maybe later, when Uncle awakens, he will finally be able to rest. But until then, he will fight off sleep to the best of his abilities. He wishes he had something to do, but it’s really too dark to be getting out his carefully stashed sewing kit, and he doesn’t feel like lighting a flame on an Earth kingdom boat would be the best plan of action. 

The boat turns slightly with the current, and his bag knocks against his foot. He pushes it back across the water-sprayed deck. He can almost imagine that he can hear the needles clinking inside, like a reminder of all of his failures. All of the ways his existence is a disappointment. It doesn’t matter now. Not much really seems to matter anymore, not now that there seems to be no hope in his foreseeable future. 

Footsteps, echoing softly against the wooden floor. He looks up quickly, hands already reaching for his swords which are stashed within easy grabbing distance. 

“Hey, hey, wait a minute. We’re all friends here, aren’t we?” 

He reluctantly relaxes his grip on the hilt of his swords. It’s just the group from earlier, the freedom fighters or whatever they call themselves. Their leader, Jet, he thinks he remembers him being called still has that irritating piece of what seems to be straw dangling from his mouth. He wonders if Jet ever changes it, if he has a whole stash of wheat that he carries around with him. He has to suppress a laugh at the thought. His tiredness must really be getting to him if he’s finding something as stupid as this amusing. 

“What do you want?” 

He’s conscientious of Uncle’s even breathing. Valuable seconds could be spent waking him up if this group decides to attack. Better to keep on edge. 

“I was just wondering if you’d be happy to come and talk with us? The food operation we carried out earlier went well, but I had some other ideas that we think you could be a useful part in.” 

There’s an intensity in Jet’s eyes, something that puts Zuko slightly on edge. He’s seen it before, in soldiers and the like. It’s not dissimilar to a watered down version of the look that Azula often wore, even when they were still small. Then he blinks and it’s gone, like the clearing of morning mists on a hot summer’s day. Maybe he imagined it. Maybe not. 

“Fine. But whatever you want to talk about, we can do it here.” 

Jet’s eyes take in Uncle, still asleep. 

“I understand, you don’t want to leave your old man defenceless. But that’s not a problem, we can talk here too.” 

He continues on before Zuko can figure out a way to be offended by Jet labelling Iroh as an “old man.” 

“We’ve been talking, and we really think you could be a valuable part of our group. Refugees need to stick together after all...” 

There’s a rip in the side of the silent boy’s scarf. Quite a few rips actually. It looks like some attempts have been made to fix them, only to be given up on halfway through, from either irritation or simply lack of skill, he doesn’t know. His eyes fixate on it as Jet continues to talk, drowning his voice out until it is only a murmur in his ears. What he’s planning is drastic; but he’s willing to do anything to divert this conversation. 

“I can fix that for you, if you want.” 

Jet stops whatever he was saying mid-sentence, obvious surprise splashed across his face. 

“What?” 

_Does he really need to say it again_? 

“I said, I can fix your scarf for you.” 

He points towards the scarf in question in an attempt to make his point clearer when the group still looks bemused. He’s not repeating himself twice. 

“I didn’t think you’d be the type to like _sewing_.” 

Smellerbee elbows Jet in the side and he winces. 

“Do you really think you could? We tried to give it a go, but we didn’t have any of the right needles, or even the right thread! All Longshot could find was rope.” 

Zuko is already regretting this. Surely he could have come up with _something_ other than this to serve as a distraction from Jet’s proposal? Apparently not. Oh well, he might as well dig his hole deeper because there’s no getting out of this now. 

“I can fix it for you, but I’ll need more light.” _Never mind the fact that a light is, quite literally, at his fingertips_. 

The boy, Longshot, wordlessly pulls out a small unlit lantern from inside a pack at his side. He sends a long look in Zuko’s direction and he gets the feeling that he’s being assessed. For what though, he’s not sure. Then, Longshot turns his head back towards the candle, and with one deft strike of spark rocks ignites it in a shower of sparks. 

The light from the lantern flickers frailly for a minute in the night air, before settling into a more rhythmic glowing. Zuko’s almost tempted to steady the flame, to wave his hand as a command to halt the dancing shadows it creates, but he stops himself quickly. The language of fire should no longer be in his vocabulary. 

The group are looking to him expectantly, it feels a little bit like he’s a rabbit-deer in front of a carriage. He slowly reaches towards the discarded scarf and draws out his carefully packaged needles from his bag. The group are still watching him. He tries to put them out of his mind. 

The threads he has don’t match the colour of the scarf at all, but he wasn’t really expecting them too. Anyway, he gets the feeling that neither Longshot nor Jet are too bothered about what the scarf actually ends up looking like. He treads the lumpy silk through the needle and carefully pierces through the raggedy material. It honestly looks like the entire scarf is just about ready to disintegrate, so he makes sure to hold it with extra care. He doubts it would survive any sudden movement. 

All in all, he’s finished fairly quickly. The needle makes its way through the fabric without too many complaints, and though the palace staff would faint if they saw the mismatch of colours going on, at least the scarf looks more like, well, a scarf and not a bit of rag. 

He passes the scarf back to Longshot, who inspects it silently, turning it over in his hands. 

“…Thanks” 

Jet says somewhat begrudgingly, and Longshot sends another long look in Zuko’s direction, though he detects more of a feeling of gratitude in this one. 

Unfortunately, the danger of Jet and the group trying to further convince him to join their gang doesn’t seem to be over yet, as Jet half opens his mouth as if about to speak. However, the spirits seem to be on Zuko’s side for once, because a sudden larger set of waves sends the boat rocking. His bag, needles tucked back inside, rolls across the deck and straight into uncle. The rhythmic snores that Zuko had almost manage to block out abruptly stop as Iroh sits up and rubs his head. 

“You know, I really thought we had left bumpy boat rides behind us Nephew, but I suppose this one may hopefully be the last we have for a while.” 

Uncle smiles benignly at Jet and his gang, as if just noticing them (although Zuko knows for a fact that Uncle would have taken stock of his surroundings the moment he awoke). Any atmosphere of tension created quickly vanishes, as the group seems reluctant to talk with uncle now awake. Jet nods his head towards Uncle in greeting, and as if they pre-planned it, the group rises up to leave. Jet looks back at them once, with a look Zuko might describe as annoyance, and then they are gone, mingling with the crowded passengers until Zuko loses sight of them completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking a bit of time to update! Take this chapter as an apology.


	7. Wanderings (Part 1)

The city never seems to cease moving. Whole endless circles of shifting crowds move throughout the streets, like blood flowing through veins, circulating in a rich, endless, ever changing flow- but he's getting theatrical. What he means to say is that Ba Sing Se is crowded. Very crowded. Ever since they finally got off that dammed boat, since Zuko left Jet’s crew behind, he feels as if he has been fending off suspicious glances that linger on his shoulders as he passes. He tries to convince himself that there are so many people wandering these streets that he really shouldn’t feel adverse about any odd passing stares. It doesn’t work. He still can’t even let himself breath, relax, stop for a minute.

He had left the small apartment that Uncle had rented for them this morning, ears full of Uncle’s instructions to look for potential job prospects. He doesn't really see the point of getting a job to be honest. It's not like he even wants to live here, but, he supposes if he ever wants to move out of the dingy room that passes for accommodation they seem to be found themselves living in, then getting better jobs might be the only thing for it. 

He’s still not keen on the idea though, he's not sure he's really got the right personality type for anything remotely similar to customer service. But then again, he's not sure he could stomach the boredom of shifting boxes or crates or whatever other jobs they might find for themselves. 

Somewhere in his mind, a small Daydream lingers. Well, not a daydream exactly, more just the best solution to a bad situation. Maybe there'd been opening some small job in tailors, a fabric workers, something of that thread. (Ha, _thread_ ). He could probably help out there, they might need extra hands. He shuts that pointless fantasy down quickly. The Avatar might be temporarily (how long is temporary defined as?) but that’s no reason to become deluded. As if he, the crown prince, (ex-crown prince) of an enemy nation could get a job working in a sewing shop. The idea is ridiculous. (And yet still lingers) 

He hasn't been to a capital city like this for many years. Maybe even ever. Caldera was the largest city he knew, but he doubts it stands up to the sheer gargantuan size of this place. But size doesn’t always equal improvement. Maybe its different higher up, he doesn't know, but so far he's only encountered the dirt and grime of the lower ring. The roads are crowded with repetitive buildings, not repetitive in shape, or size, or even colour; but just in their derelict state, the way they all look the same on the verge of falling down. That seems to be a common theme in many of the places he's passed through over the last three years. 

Back to the task at hand. He memorised the outside of the building they’re staying at when he first saw it. But that doesn't help him much, as for all the differences and similarities in the many streets of the lower ring, they are still nearly impossible to navigate. Winding, narrow in some places and then wider, and then much wider until they’re almost wide enough to fit a house between- and then down to thin alleyways again. It’s almost like a canyon caused by some meandering river; rippling, changing, curving in unexpected ways until he's not sure where, or how far away he started. Tributaries drift off in different directions off like branches on a tree pulling lines of housing along with them. (He thinks it's housing, it's hard to tell). 

He's suddenly startled by the lack of noise. Well, not lack exactly, just a reduction. He seems to have wandered to even more of an outskirt of the lower ring, tucked roughly away from the loudness of the central market. Here, any eyes that meet his are quickly averted, and everyone walks furtively. It’s almost nice, (the quiet that is not the houses). But it also doesn’t look likely to hold any.. respectable job offers. The last thing Zuko needs is to be caught up in the businesses of any smuggling gangs or any other criminals who operate in these parts. He’s already got enough on his plate as it is. He’s all but ready to turn back towards the way he came when he sees it. A flash of movement. His first thought would have been that the movement had been a trick of the light, but you don’t survive the royal palace by believing that the shadows in your room at night are figments of your imagination. Assassins. He’s seen enough of them to last him a lifetime. 

_The bulky Earth Kingdom that come in packs, barely making through the windows before being swallowed in waves of fire_. 

(Bravery doesn’t make a difference when you’re dead). 

_The dull toned cloth of spies, daggers tucked in every conceivable fold of fabric_. 

(He remembers Azula’s cries in the night, the way the guards found the man slumped over her, a perfectly cauterised hole in his chest). 

_And, just once, he swears he saw a group with Nation insignias proudly on their chests_. _Those ones were never talked about_. 

(Apart from in whispers down the hallways). 

All this flashes through his mind in a painful instant. He reminds himself of his reality. This figure is not an assassin. (Probably). Nobody even knows he’s here, or thinks that the Crown Prince and the dragon of the west would be idiotic enough to seek shelter in the last fort of the earth kingdom. No, he’d have to be really stupid to agree to something like that. 

He’s almost convinced himself to keep walking, but he still has the feeling of watchful eyes lingering on his back. He forces himself to take the steps anyway, to not reveal any acknowledgment of the figure on the roof top. They wouldn’t be looking for him, more likely they just scope out areas, watch as guards, spy on their own civilians. It’s nothing he’s not used too. He’ll just have to make sure Uncle knows of the spying eyes. They don’t want a repeat of the tea incident at the train station. He keeps walking slowly, swaying his arms in an effort to look relaxed. It looks more like he’s fighting off some invisible spirit. However, whatever he’s doing must have some effect, because soon enough the feeling of being watched dissipates and he can walk freely again. 

He’s still lost though. 

The streets are gradually starting to regains some semblance of life, and Zuko even has to sidestep around couples as he walks. However, he still hasn’t seen anything vaguely familiar since he began walking. Everything here is so different: the houses, the clothes, the people. Even if he knew where he was, he’d still feel lost. 

There’s a commotion up ahead. Three burly men stand toe to toe, forming some sort of uneven triangle. They’re shouting about something, he’s not sure what, but he picks up the words: _money_ , _payment_ and _overdue_. Problem pretty much solved, overdue debt is what most men seem to argue about. It doesn’t interest him. He’s already lost focus, about to walk past without giving them a second glance, when one of the men reaches a breaking point. He stamps loudly. The echoes of his foot race through the earth, causing ripples and vibration that culminate in a thin, blunt, spike. Directly through one of the other men’s foot. After that there’s a lot more shouting. 

Clumps of earth fly in every direction, and anybody currently in the street ducks into any of the nearest buildings. He would be tempted to follow their leads, except… except that he’s already aware of the shadows on the roof tops, drawn by the sounds of the conflict. Theses mysterious enforcers, whoever they are, they’re probably going to want to question people. People at the scene of the fight. People which he numbers amongst. And he can’t afford that. Not now. The average Ba Sing Se citizens may overlook odd-coloured eyes; he’s already seen one or two pairs during his time here. But those are just disregarded as anomalies, unfortunates. They may be ostracised by their countrymen, but still, accidents happen. Nobody can help an unfortunate birth right. 

These people though.. he doesn’t know. They don’t look like the sort to brush off golden eyes as mixed heritage. They look, from what he’s already seen of them, keen. Trained. And he has a feeling that a run in with a group of them could only end badly for him and uncle. No, better he leaves the scene of this crime, and as quickly as he can. There’s a marginally empty street stretching out from this now practically empty one, so as the fight draws to its inevitable close, he slips down it and away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patience through these ages of me not updating!  
> Hope that this chapter is ok, feel free to point out any mistakes!


	8. Wanderings (Part 2)

_Keep walking_. His footsteps seem to echo unnaturally loud. _Keep walking_. The cobbled stone path is uneven, running could be tricky. _Just keep walking_.

The shouts and screams of anger from behind become fainter, more muffled as he turns through the winding corners, but he still doesn’t allow himself to breath too loudly. He’s not sure what it is about the sight of the silent guards that has brought out this worry in him, it’s not like he hasn’t been spied upon or followed before. 

_Maybe he’s just not used to this more silent subtlety_. _Maybe it reminds him more of fire than of earth_.  
It doesn’t matter.  


Zuko’s not even sure whether the men are still trailing him. Surely this outbroken fight will be higher on any mysterious watcher’s priority’s list then following witnesses? Who knows. He hasn’t been in Ba Sing Se long enough to get a clear understanding of what really counts as a noticeable “incident” in these parts. If he knew the results of the fight, then maybe he could know whether to relax or not- but no. Heading back would be an open invitation for trouble. ( _He’s had enough of that for the time being_ ). 

There are people on this street. Not many, never many, but enough. Enough to try to lose himself in. Tired looking parents dragging strings of straggling children behind them, younger adults with dust in their hair and dirt on their hands. He blends right in. 

Zuko continues like this down a few more streets, continuously checking round every corner before heading down in. Eventually, he allows himself to feel a small measure of relief. _He’s probably been obsessing over nothing_. 

Then he sees them. 

They’re at the corner of the street, a little out of view. Two men, conical hats covering the edges of their faces and making it harder to see their eyes. _They don’t particularly look as if they’re actively searching_ , he notes with respite, but at this point that honestly doesn’t make much of a difference to him. They’re still watching, waiting, documenting. And he really doesn’t like the idea of being known. Zuko doesn’t pause in his walking, but he does carefully scout out the neighbouring shops. A food stall: _too crowded for his liking_. A dingy tea shop: _he’s had enough of tea for a lifetime_. 

But the ominous men are getting nearer by the second, and _he really should have been less picky about finding an ideal shop to hide out in_ , so he quickly turns towards the nearest open door. 

He almost laughs the moment he steps inside. 

He’s reminded, of a time that feels like a lifetime but was really not that long ago. When a younger version of himself went through this same situation, ducking into a shop to try and escape. It’s like the spirits version of some big joke. _What are the chances_? 

Because the walls of the shop, _the fabric shop_ , are lined with spools upon spools of thread. He wants to turn around, to leave, but he hasn’t really left himself with many options. He doesn’t even have any money on him. 

The light in the shop is dim. Small lamps flicker dejectedly on wide stone bases, pointedly removed from the vicinity of any flammable materials. He feels the tug of the fire in his chest, and for a minute he long to wander over towards them, like some sort of moth-bee. _Pull yourself together_ … 

Despite the shop’s placement in the lower ring, the wares are surprisingly well kept. There must be a steady demand for sewing around here, but, thinking about it, that does make sense. New clothes are expensive; why bother with them if you can simply fix the old? It’s not like he’s never been in that situation. 

At least the shop seems mostly empty at the minute. Nobody around to try and engage him in conversation. _Or maybe not_ , the thinks irritably as he catches the eye of the shopkeeper cutting threads behind the desk. She’s fairly short, he absentmindedly notices, and quite fierce looking. Her hair is tucked behind her head in a tight bun, secured with a surprisingly delicate pin. The dark green kimono she wears shifts as she abruptly stands. 

“What do you think you’re doing back there?” 

He jumps at her tone of voice, feeling inexplicably guilty.  
“Umm..” He stumbles over his words and the shopkeeper’s eyes narrow.  


“Well? Speak up!” 

_Agni, its like being shouted at by one of the palace tutors_.. 

“I’m just..” He desperately picks up the closest thing within reach, “..browsing?” 

The lady scoffs in disbelief. 

“A likely story. I sincerely doubt that a young man like yourself wants anything to do with,” her eyes drift over the material he has clutched in his hand, “floral patterned silk.” 

He can’t help but shrug defensively. “Maybe I like flowers.” 

The women shakes her head. 

“I don’t care about _whether or not you like flowers_ , I’m just here to prevent teenagers from stealing my materials again.” 

Zuko feels the smallest streak of indignation rear its head. 

“I’m not here to steal anything! I’m not a _thief_.“ (Though that statement may not be completely true, he feels as if the sentiment still stands). 

Another scoff. “Is that so? Have any money on you then?” 

“Well, not at the minute, but-“ 

“So you just happened to wander into my shop, without money? Seems a pretty unlikely story.” 

“I’m just… waiting for somebody.” (Not strictly a lie, he _is_ actively wating for those Earth guards to move on). 

“I don’t tolerate dawdlers in my shop. In my experience, a crowded shop is an easy way to scare off customers.” 

The women looks at him, and for a split second he imagines he sees a small relent in the intensity of her green eyes. 

“However, if what you say is true any you really are simply waiting for somebody, then I suppose that it won’t make much of a difference to me if you spend your time doing something useful.” 

“Something useful, like what?” 

“Wait here for a moment.” 

She turns and disappears amongst the folds of material lining the walls, and he is left in blissful quiet. He takes a moment to gather his thoughts from the fall out of the unexpected interrogation as he surveys his surroundings in more detail. 

Most of the materials are dyed either earthy browns or greens _because of course they are_. It would probably be classed as traitorous to have something stained in red. The lamps line the confines of the room at various intervals as he had noticed earlier, each assigned their own slot. The whole area had a cramped feeling to it, and the separate displays of different fabrics seem to almost merge into each other. As a contrast to this mess, the desk the shopkeeper had been sitting at is mostly clear, aside from an inkpot and a few sheets of paper. There’s something drawn on the paper, he realises, something looping up all over each of the individual sheets. It’s… designs. Layouts. Patterns. He wants to study them to pick them up and really look at them, but any hope of doing so is quickly dashed as he hears the forthcoming footsteps of the shopkeeper returning. 

She glares suspiciously at him as she re-enters the main room, despite the fact that he’s still standing in the same spot she left him in. 

“Take these.” 

She passes over what he had first thought to be a chunk of material but is in actual fact, he realises in dismay, a tightly knotted ball of threads. 

“..What exactly do you want me to do with these?” He already has a sinking suspicion, but he askes anyway. 

The shopkeeper laughs scornfully “Untangle them of course.”  
He can’t help but sigh. This really wasn’t how he wanted to spend the day, but its either this, or back onto streets filled with mysterious figures. So, he nods, and takes a seat at the empty stool she points him to, before bending down towards the string. 

It’s harder than it looks. The individual threads are so inexorably bound together that they might as well be one thick, multi-coloured rope. It doesn’t help that his depth perception isn’t great either. Still, he picks at it with fingernails far dirtier than he would like. How long has it been since he was really, properly clean? The simple answer to that is far too long. 

Time passes slowly as the size of the knot lessons and the piles of sorted string grow. He runs the threads through his hands feeling the rough texture between his fingers. 

“ _Zuzu!_ ” _She was tangled in the threads again, face red with indignation_. 

“ _Help me, now_!” 

_He’d stifled back a laugher as he’d freed her hair from the knot it had found itself in, teasing out the red strands of silk_. 

“ _How did this even happen_?”  
“ _That’s none of your business _!”__

____

____

_He had squashed down another laugh, his amusement would likely only make matters worse_. “ _You know you can get mum to help you with this too right_?” 

_He’d felt the slightest stiffening beneath his fingers, a small tensing of her shoulder blades_. 

“ _Your room was closer_.” 

_He doesn’t feel like arguing with that_. 

“Finished I take it?” 

He jumps slightly in surprise “Yes, it’s all done.” 

She ducks down and inspects the piles. Then suddenly, “Name.” 

He can’t hide his confusion. “What?” 

“I said, name.” 

“Uh, Lee.”  
The alias still feels foreign in his mouth, but he offers it up anyway. 

“Hmm.” 

There’s silence for a brief moment, and then, “You may call me Hua. You have been of help today, so I thank you for that. The shop needs to be closed, so it is indeed time for you to go.” 

She points towards the door, and he stands to leave with a slight bow. From the window, he sees that the sky is darker than he expected it to be, and wonders with a start just how long he’s been sitting at that stool for. However, just as he reaches the door, he hears Hua again, voice slightly sharp. 

“Lee.” 

He turns. 

“Are you perhaps looking for a job at the moment?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! I finally managed to update! Sorry about my terrible slowness, unfortuantly we've entered exam season so I really don't have much time for anything at the moment. Oh well, hope that this chapters alright!


	9. Buttercup-Lilies

The city keeps moving and life goes on as slowly as always.

Zuko believes that he may (despite his best efforts) be actually capable of producing a drinkable cup of tea. _He’s not an idiot, he remembers the way uncle eyes had watered in the desert when Zuko had presented him with his own brew_. These days, he’s almost proud to admit that his tea only causes a small grimace to cross uncle’s face whenever he braves a small sample of it. 

Not that it does him much good anyway, he doubts half of the patrons to the small tea shop they’ve found their jobs in have any actual experience with what uncle calls “good tea.”  
(He sympathises with them; it all tastes the same to him too). 

By this point, he’s learned enough to stay quite when uncle goes off on one off his tea rants, to nod in the appropriate places and not wince when one of their customers asks if they could “possibly have some hippo-milk with this?” 

People come and go, tea is served, the conversation of the customers turns to a background humming in his ears. 

Life goes on. 

And then, on Mondays and Thursdays, it changes. He folds up his apron, tucks away the tea kettles, and steps out of their small flat with the suns light barely gracing the streets. 

He’s told Uncle that he’d got another job as extra support, but left out some of the key details. Such as the actual name of the shop. He hasn’t really outright lied about anything though, he technically _is_ working as a shop cleaner, even if he does slightly different work from what the job of a shop cleaner would usually entail. 

But its fine. He does the work, cleans the materials, sorts out the tangled threads, attempts to keep customers occupied while Hua hunts through her piles of materials for the right length of string or shade of green, or any other of the countless different things each individual customer needs. If working at a tea shop has taught him anything other than how to make tea, it’s the facts that he’s absolutely dreadful at any sort of small talk, and working at Hua’s shop does absolutely nothing to change that. 

_It’s not really his fault,_ he defends, _it wasn’t like he really had much need for pointless chatter when he was sailing all over the world in search of a legend_. But he hasn’t seen ~~Aang~~ The Avatar in over a month now, and he hates to admit it, but it’s getting less likely everyday that he’ll be seeing him again anytime soon. 

Besides, if he ever does manage to get home, then being able to actually _talk_ to his people might not really be so much of a bad thing? Azula had always said that he needed to work on his people skills. 

All of these points do absolutely nothing to change the fact that he is still woefully unprepared when the door of the shop suddenly slams open one afternoon as he works to painstakingly unstitch a patch of old fabric. 

The women that makes her way into the shop has an expression of irritation scrawled across her face. She pulls a small child alongside her, jerking them along whenever they try to stop. She looks better off than the average lower-ring citizen, that much Zuko can tell in barely a glance. She must be one of the people to exist in that space between the middle and lower ring, not quite belonging to either. 

She huffs as she walks, and glares at Zuko as if she’s doing him a favour by walking into his shop. 

“I’m going to need a new dress for Tang here.” (At this, she shakes the arm of this small child vigorously to their obvious discomfort). 

“And I’m going to need it quickly! The last one we purchased here was all wrong. The green was _not_ how it looked in the shop.” 

She sniffs, looking down on him haughtily, and he fights back the urge to feel embarrassed about the disintegrating piece of fabric he holds in his hands. 

“However, because I believe in second chances, I thought I would try you people again. Give you one more attempt at giving me a satisfactory result.” 

She crosses her arms with a look of self-righteous indignation on her face. Zuko holds back a sigh. Fine. If she wants the dress changed for another, that’s not a problem. 

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Mrs..?”  
“ _Chen_ ,” She snaps. “As you should well know!” 

“My apologies. The dress was a terrible mistake, and we’ll do our best to remedy it.” ( _Is he overdoing it on the apologising? Who knows, he’s never been sure about how to talk to these kinds of people_ ). “If you can pass me over the dress, I’ll exchange it for something you may prefer. 

_They do have different colours of the same items of clothing right_? _Or will they have to make a whole new one just to get this women the right shade of green. Perhaps he can dye it..._

“Pass it over? I didn’t even bring it!” 

_...didn’t even bring it_? His mind takes a moment to process. 

“...why?” He’s almost afraid to ask, but a lack of self-preservation urges him onwards. 

“It’s not _my_ fault that this sorry excuse for a shop got my order wrong! I was very specific on the colouring I wanted; green with a _canary-fish_ yellow, not green with _dandelion-lemon_ yellow!” 

He resists the urge to bury his face in his hands, or to pehaps set something on fire. 

“I need to _see_ the original in order to get the next shade correct. Besides, wouldn’t it have been more convenient to bring back the faulty dress now so that we could have swapped it immediately?” 

The women laughs, a high, tittering sound that scrapes against his already inflamed nerves. 

“Swap it? Why would I do that? It’s you people who are at fault here, I should be expected to pay for it!” 

Again, he is forced to take a moment to process this statement. Does this women really expect to receive a whole new dress, for _free_? 

It is at this moment that he hears a dry cough coming from his left. He’s been so embroiled in dealing with this women and her increasingly bored looking child, that he hadn’t even noticed Hua entering the main shop.  
“What seems to be the problem here?” 

Hua’s voice is calm, collected, different from how he usually hears it now that it’s directed towards a customer and not towards him. 

The women seems slightly mollified by Hua’s tone, and she shoots Zuko a dismissive look. 

“I was just explaining to your shop boy the _problems_ I’ve been having with this dress.” 

Hua nods. “Well, if you would care to explain them to me, I’m sure we can find a solution..” 

The women gives a grunt of resignation, and Hua shoots Zuko a sharp look out of the corner of her eye. He decides to interpret this as a dismissal, and quickly retreats back to one of the furthest corners of the shop where he can carry on his work in peace. 

**.....**

Later, just as he finishes sorting out some shelves in the storage room, Hua finds him again. For somebody as short and decidedly on the older end of adulthood as she is, she’s still slightly off putting when angry. Zuko can’t help but try and stand up straighter. He can only hope that his earlier encounter with the irritating customer hadn’t managed to induce Hua’s irritation. 

“Don’t look so nervous!” Hua snaps as if reading his mind. 

He hurriedly works to remove any traces of trepidation from his face.  
(He’s never been good at lying). 

Hua sighs. 

“I managed to get it through to our earlier customer that we can’t just give her a whole new dress for free, but unfortunately I was forced into agreeing to give her a little extra work on this new one.”  
She holds up a slightly crumpled dress, stained in a green and yellowish hint. 

_Is it canary-fish yellow? Or dandelion-lemon yellow? He still can’t tell the difference_. 

“I told her we could embellish the hem with a few simple flowers for no extra charge. ‘ _On the house_ ’ as it were.” 

She snorts contemptuously. 

“Of course, I also told her that I’d take care of it personally, since she is of course such a _valued customer_. So here, this is me personally giving you the job. I really don’t have time to fix every whiny purchasers’ problems.” 

She passes over the dress as if the sight of it displeases her, along with a set of tightly bound threads. 

“ _Do try_ not to mess it up. I assume you have some experience with embroidery, or you wouldn’t have been skulking around my shop in the first place. Don’t do anything to fancy either; I won’t have one of my workers wasting time on a women like that.” 

And with those final remarks, she stalks away, leaving Zuko with his hands full of materials and unasked questions on his lips. 

Well. Best get to it then, it _is_ part of his job. 

He glances around the now empty storage room, wondering if he’s supposed to go somewhere else. He doubts that Hua would care much either way. There’s an abandoned workstation in one of the corners, slightly cobwebbed looking, but still usable. He knocks it with the tip of his foot. When it doesn’t immediately collapse into a pile of worm wooden timber, he carefully places the dress and its accompanying materials down onto it. 

A quick search of the shelving reveals an old embroidery hoop and a set of needles, which he brings back with him to the desk. 

_Right_. How exactly is he supposed to go about this? _Don’t do anything fancy, don’t mess up_. Those are pretty much the only instructions he’s received. He’s not even sure what colour he’s supposed to do these flowers in. _Though, the dress is green with a yellow edge, it would make sense to do the flowers in a colour that fit that theme..._

Not an orange, that wouldn’t work, not gold either; too ‘fancy.’ A darker yellow? That might actually work. As he contemplates the idea, a though creeps into his mind. Hmm. He might actually have the perfect flower in mind… 

Picturing the petals in his memory, he roots through the pack of thread until he finds the right shade of yellowed amber. _Yes_. He knows _exactly_ what flower to do. 

He sets up the hoop, placing the material firmly between the grips of it, and carefully threads his needle. Now all he has to do is not mess this up. 

**.....**

An unspecific time later, Hua looks down on his finished work. Now set free of the embroidery hoop, it lies stretched across the desk, illuminated by the lamps he’d placed around his workstation to fight back the creeping shadows. For a second, he thinks he sees a small smile cross Hua’s face, but he brushes it off as a trick of the flickering light. 

“Buttercup-lilies. An interesting choice. Any particular reason that you decided on going with this flower?” 

_Buttercup-lilies: symbolising ingratitude, pride and childish behaviour_. 

“None at all.” He dead-pans. 

“Hmm. I’m sure that’s the case. You didn’t spend too much time on this did you?” 

“No, I made sure I had enough time to finish clearing out the shelves too.” 

“Well, it’s surprisingly good work. I wasn’t really expecting much if I’m being honest. I was half hoping that if you did turn out to be an awful stitcher, then perhaps Mrs Chen would be so offended that she might decide to go and bother some other poor seamstress.” 

“Oh. Well, sorry then.”  
He winces at how awkward he sounds, but he’s really not sure of what else to say. 

“No, no, it’s fine. Lets just hope that she’s satisfied enough with the dress, and perhaps that she doesn’t think to look up flower meanings anytime soon.” 

Hua picks up the dress, folding it up neatly. 

“You know, I think you could be of more use in this shop then I first anticipated. We have quite a few customers here, you may have noticed that the lower ring does not have many other tailor shops. I do pride myself on being meticulous, but sometimes I do unfortunately find myself with rather a backlog on some of my work.” 

He nods uncertainly, trying to not to show any puzzlement on his face. 

“I believe that you have quite a bit of talent, and that could be put to some use here.” 

Zuko can’t help coughing in surprise. He has a nasty feeling that his face is turning rather red as he tries to regain his composure. 

“That sounds reasonable enough I guess. What would you want me to do?” 

“Not much more then you’re already doing at the minute that is at least. I’d just want you to finish a few smaller jobs for me, do some touch up on some pieces, that sort of thing. Small stuff until I can get a better gauge of your actual level.” 

Is he being promoted? This sounds like a promotion. He’s not quite sure what a promotion is supposed to sound like, the most he’s ever really been is demoted. 

“Uhh, yeah. That sounds fine, I guess..” 

“Right! That’s settled then.” Hua glances towards her set of balanced hour glances. “And once again, it’s time for you to get out of my shop. Get back from wherever you came from why don’t you! And I expect to see you back on time for your shift on Monday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Appears out of the ether, tosses a chapter towards you, vanishes.*  
> Happy New Year!!
> 
> Sorry again for being so slow on updating haha. Hope you all are doing well, remember to stay safe!


	10. Twisting Dragons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, last chapter on this segment! But don't you guys worry, I'll be posting the next part soon :D

And so, now Zuko finds himself with what could be counted as a promotion. Things stay much the same at first, he works with Uncle at the Pao Family Tea House most parts of the week, trying to remind himself that normal Earth citizens prefer not to be handed their teas at close to boiling point. People come and go, as is their habit of doing so, and the shop changes little.

Initially, he finds himself believing that Hua had been joking when she said that she wanted more help with the sewing shop, but he rather regrets this assumption when she snaps at him on the evening of his Monday shift. 

“What do you think you’re doing, fiddling around with those coat rails?” 

He straightens up immediately, pushing the disarranged pile he’d been rummaging through back into its heap. 

“It’s uhh, my turn to organise them? Isn’t it?” 

Hua sighs with enough ferocity that he half expects sparks to shoot from her mouth. 

“Did you by some mysterious chance happen to go deaf last week when I told you that I didn’t need you doing that kind of stuff anymore? Or did some irritable spirit steal your memories? Get one of my other assistants to do it for Kingdom’s sake.” 

She throws up her hands and retreats back towards her workstation, muttering darkly to herself. 

“Yeah,” He calls to her retreating back. “Sorry. I’ll do that.” 

(If he can even find one. In all the time he’s spent working for Hua, he rarely sees anyone else. Either their avoiding him, or, more likely, they’re too afraid of Hua to consider talking to anyone who’s exchanged more than a few words with her). 

**.....**

The first (or should it really be counted as the second?) task she sets him is relatively simple. An old kimono, seams torn and edge ragged is placed down onto his desk in the back of the storage room. He treads a thick needle, and tries not to wince as he pushes it through the rough material. Its almost enough to make him want to remake the entire garment. (Though preferably out of some other material then what seems to have the consistency of discarded sack). 

Nonetheless, soon he’s finished, and the kimono is passed back to its original owners, and the next torn item on the list is handed over to him. 

Thread, the needle, push it through the fabric. Repeat. 

This cycle continues for the next few hours, until the shop begins to empty once more, and the guards begin lighting the lanterns that line the streets. 

He can’t help but feel a little disappointed. Even the unthreading of old clothes that Hua had had him doing before had been slightly more interesting than what it looks like Hua may be making him do for the foreseeable future. He doesn’t complain though. Not yet. 

The breaking point comes a week or so later, after a particularly mind-numbingly brown fix. 

“Why do you keep making me do this.” He hisses at Hua impatiently, working had to keep the sparks in his fingertips at bay. 

“Anyone could be doing this. What is the point.” 

Hua doesn’t even bother to look up from the shirt she’s been hemming with threads of gold. 

“Your skill, while no doubt admirable, still need refinement. You’re used to focusing on the ‘big picture’ I believe, and not always considering the smaller details that might crop up along the way. You make bold moves, but often impulsively.” 

She secures the needle into the maroon cloth, and fixes him with a steady stare. 

“So, until I am sure that you have your craft perfected to the best level I see fit, you will continue working the more menial tasks.” Hua shakes her hand dismissively. “Now, if you do excuse me, it looks like Mr Zhan is here to pick up his coat.” 

With that excuse, she swiftly rises and heads towards the front of the shop, and Zuko cannot stop the fabric in his hands from smoking ever so slightly. 

**.....**

Hua turns out to be right, of course. She usually does. 

He barley notices the differences at first, still to irritated about the work he finds himself doing. But the changes are undeniable the more he focuses on them. He’s getting faster, more efficient at the quick lines of stitches, and neater at that. He’d been good before of course, years of practising in the palace gardens and all the work he’d done over his years at sea had made sure of that. But now, if he compares the stitches he creates nowadays to ones he’d made barley two weeks ago, he can already see the difference. His fingers are tired, callouses that have built up over the years stretched and irritated in new places. It’s a sign of progress. 

So, he’s more than a little surprised when upon his entering of the shop on Thursday, Hua, grey hair barely visible over arms full of an assorted amount of scrolls, presents him with a garment that for once doesn’t seem to be ripped. 

“I was going to take care of this one myself, but I decided to hand it over to you instead.” 

He looks down at it with no small amount of confusion. He didn’t think that by her standards he’d be ready for this. 

“What do you want be to do with it?” 

“Customer wanted something to celebrate their kid’s birthday with. Didn’t really go into much specifics, but said that their kid likes Badger-Moles. Think you can handle that?” 

He nods silently, and she rolls her eyes. 

“Do you even know what a Badger-Mole looks like?” 

“I’m not an idiot!”  
_He does, as a matter of fact, know what a Badger-Mole looks like. He’s seen enough of them on his travels around the earth kingdom, well, the tame ones at any rate. He has no doubt that the actual wild Badger-Moles would be much, much bigger_. 

“Well, I took the precaution of procuring you some reference images anyway.” 

Hua places down the various scroll that he had until that point assumed to be manuals or instructions of some point down on his desk with a heavy clunk. He catches a glimpse of some of the characters making up the titles: 

“ _An illustrated guide to Earth Kingdom History...Badger-Moles and where to find them..._ ”  
He can only assume that the rest of the scrolls are titled much the same because Hua is glaring at him impatiently and he is forced to redivert his attention back to her. 

“Nothing to big, alright? I’m thinking something along the lines of one or two badger-moles, depending on the size you choose to do them of course, and maybe some vines in the background?” She shrugs. “I’ll leave the details in your hands.” 

And then he is left alone, with the only the needles, some thread and an unnecessary number of scrolls for company. 

Not something he’s complaining about. 

**.....**

Of course, now that things may finally be turning in his favour, that’s when it all goes rapidly downhill.  
He’s finishing up one day, working on the newest piece he’s been given, when he happens to glace upwards. And through a gap between the shelves, he watches clear as day as the door to the shop swings open and- 

_Uncle_. 

He feels a surge of a mix of emotions, horror, confusion, disbelief. What is he doing here? This isn’t some twist of fate, some odd coincidence; no, this is pure and utter intention. This cannot be happening. And yet it is. Uncle stands meanderingly, dressed in simple Earth Kingdom browns and with a large bag slung over one arm. His eyes pass un-searchingly around the room, and Zuko resists the urge to duck. 

His mind races at a furious pace. Uncle must have followed him from the shop at some point. He’d been getting sloppy, paying less and less attention the watchful eyes that pressed against his back through the streets of Ba Sing Se. Why should he pay attention? Everyone is watched in Ba Sing Se, a common enough fact whispered in inns by those to drunk to care. _The Dai Lee..._

But he can’t allow himself to become distracted. The problem still stands because Uncle is _right there_ , not moving, just waiting idly as if for all the world he’s just popped in for a friendly chat. 

Well. Nothing left to do but approach. 

He lays the materials down carefully on the bench, and pushes past the draping’s of fabric and into the main shop. 

Uncle spots him immediately, probably having noticed him the moment he stepped into the shop. 

“Lee!” He calls out enthusiastically, as if for all the world surprised to see him. “My, what a funny coincidence seeing you here!” 

He winces at the loudness. “Uncle can you please keep it down-“  
But it’s too late. Hua has taken notice of the commotion, and her head snaps towards Iroh. She ventures out of the shadows like some malicious spirit and stalks over towards them. 

“And who might you be?” 

“Well, I’m Lee’s Uncle of course! Mush! Surely he must have mentioned his dear Uncle to you at some point.” 

Uncle bows in flawless Earth Kingdom style, deep and gratuitous. 

“I suspected that Lee may have been sneaking off to see a lady friend, but I did not expect one of your stature!” 

Hua scowls. “You flatter me.” She says the words like she means the exact opposite. 

This is hell. This is a special personalised nightmare that Agni has created to torment him with. _What did he do to deserve this_? 

“Well,” Uncle continues, cheerfully unperturbed “I was just wandering through the neighbour shop, Lee and I both work at a tea shop around here you know, and I thought that I might stick my head in to say hello, to make your acquaintance!” 

“And now,” says Zuko roughly, “You’ve done that. Shouldn’t we be going? I think you have a shift soon.” 

(He knows uncle has a shift in exactly 30 minutes, he’s memorised the rotas). 

“Not today! I spoke with Pao, and agreed the afternoon off! I’ll make up for it another day. I thought that you dear Nephew, and your manager of course,” he nods towards Hua, “could leave your work for a minute to join an old man for a quick chat?” 

“Isn’t that what we’re doing right now?” Zuko manages to ask. “ _Chatting_.” 

“Well, it wouldn’t be a proper chat without tea, now would it?” Says Uncle, pulling out a fully packed tea set from the bag at his side. Because of course Uncle would bring tea to an interrogation. 

Hua eyes the tea set with no small amount of wariness. “You certainly came prepared.” 

“What, this? No, no, I carry this around with me everywhere. You never know who might need a cup of tea! Now, you wouldn’t happen to have a small kitchen anywhere would you..?” 

So that is how Zuko finds himself 10 minutes later, holding a rapidly heating cup of tea and trying not to throw it against the wall in frustration. Uncle and Hua talk at the small table, leaning around piles of discarded materials. 

The small kitchen at the back of the shop is just that, small, and there is barley enough room for the three of them. _At least Hua and Uncle haven’t got on each other’s bad sides yet_. He thinks almost feverishly. He doesn’t think he could stomach an argument breaking out. 

The talk goes on, meaningless platitudes and conversation, and then before he knows it, he and Uncle are outside again on the cold Ba Sing Se street. 

“So,” Uncle asks as they walk back towards the tea shop. “Why didn’t you tell me you had another job? At a tailor’s no less?” 

Zuko sighs, and if his breath is warmer than it ought to be then neither of them comment on it. 

“Didn’t think it was important.” 

It’s hard to define as what he views as important. He may not be in the habit of lying, but this certainly falls into that category. It’s a catharsis, a ritual. Something that belongs to him and him alone. ( _And to so many people, ~~Ursa, Azula...~~ _) he doesn’t want to tell people, because, because- He doesn’t even know. Well, that’s not strictly true. He still has the burn marks, the pale fingertip shapes that press into his arms. Splayed across his face. He tries not to think about that. He tries not to think about a lot of things.__

__**.....** _ _

__He works on an embroidery for Uncle, stiches small strands of it whenever he has the free time. He spends more time at Hua’s shop now, his shifts there expanded from 2 days to 3, and then to 4. He loses himself in the threading, the repetition. Meditation in different forms. They don’t often supply red in Earth Kingdom lands. Perhaps it would be a treason. But they have enough threads to weave their way into a sunset._ _

__It’s a beach scene, unrecognisable to most. An azure sea stained with an amber hue laps at an empty beach, an expanse that stretches up towards an impassive horizon. The drop of golden sun falls, like and ember, into the deepening water._ _

__He’s not sure whether he even remembers it right, it’s been so long. But Uncle seems to get what it means. The island that seems to hold most of his happy childhood memories. He pretends not to see the tears in Uncle’s eyes when he murmurs that it makes him think of Lu Ten._ _

__The piece hangs on the wall of their empty flat, and then later in the entrance of their new tea shop._ _

__**.....** _ _

The cycle repeats itself. He thinks for a moment, one bright, fierce moment, that he has the avatar again, but it’s just his Bison, and then he doesn’t know, _he doesn’t know_ \- 

They get offered a new tea shop, and he tells himself to be happy. Try to be peaceful, try to forget. ( _never forget who you are_ ). A repetitive, drumming mantra. 

He still ventures down to the lower ring, swapping out the finer cut tea serving apron for needles and thread, acting like nothing has changed. Like he hasn’t changed. Stitches threads through cloths and embroiders twisting pattens until it all bleeds into one. 

_And then, below the city in a place lit by crystals and flames, he finds himself making a choice. And he doesn’t choose Uncle_. 

_At night, as he turns again and again, his dreams are full of dragons, weaving like rippling ribbons_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming soon: Zuko revaluates his life choices while in a number of high stress senarios.  
> Should be out within the next week or so, so stay tuned :)
> 
> A massive ty to each and every one of you who have supported me so far, and don't hesitate to point out any mistakes!


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